vaya con pance

OK. OK. I had to post it. Turns out my “poor, poor right foot,” the subject of recent lamentations, wasn’t just crying wolf. Snarling, drooling real-life wolf there was – in the form of broken blobbeedeebloo tarsal. The x-ray of said foot, so pityingly shared with me in a “see what you could have avoided if you would have come in a month ago” manner, was not pretty. Picture a diagonal-ish crack along my itty bitty pinky toe foundation bone (medical term) resembling, say, a bolt of lightening. And as feet go – apparently – they tend to start the healing process all by themselves… but as Mr. Doctor didn’t hesitate to point out,

“See right heeeeeerrrre… this is where we should see some of that healing I was talking about, but [sideways glance of disapproval] there is no sign of that progress.”

Hmm. Hiking. Biking. Hiking. Swimming. Oopsie.

So I have a boot. For four weeks. BIG SIGH. Welcome [back] to New York!!!

True to my inability to rest I’ve been testing the limits of my poor, poor right foot by biking, hiking, more hiking, winery’ing, a little swimming and some… well… I think that’s about it. I keep busy with things that I love so I won’t dwell on my professional stagnancy. It’s working so far.

Sunday I biked 25 miles along the New River Trail (unintentionally in the uphill direction). Tuesday I hiked to an old 1700s farm near the Blue Ridge Parkway after a visit to the Peaks of Otter Winery. Wednesday Knitiot and I went for her inaugural trip up McAfee’s Knob on the AT. The rain and foggy fall mist made the trail appear as if I hadn’t already hiked it twice before.

On my “off” days I’ve gone swimming for exercise to give my foot a breather. The thing about swimming is… it’s hard. And I can’t do it right because I have no idea how to breathe. But damn – if I wasn’t dripping with sterilized pool water I’d be dripping with sweat. But it’s different and new to me and that’s what I like about it. And it’s 1/3 of a Triathlon! (Let’s not mention I haven’t been running in 2.5 weeks, I will cry.) So here’s to finding a decent lap swimming joint in NYC. Other than the Hudson.

On Saturday I volunteered in the Humane Society booth at the VT game with my aunt and uncle. The same VT game that everyone is continuing to talk about because the newscaster, commenting on our extreme fandome, said that we were all “losing our minds.” Damn skippy. It was very hard work but very fun annnnnd I got to watch the game for free (not to mention all the free popcorn and soda I could possibly fit in). There were 2200 leftover pizzas(!) at the end – likely because no one MOVED from their seats the entire second half.

I’ve been listening to XM radio’s “90s on 9” whilst I tool around Blacksburg and the larger NRV metropolitan area these few weeks and it’s really f’ing with my brain. Ya see, I’ve actually LIVED the 90s on these means streets: ’89-’93 as a Blacksburg High School Indian and ’93-’97 as a Radford University… ummm… upstanding, respectable college student.

When I’m driving through downtown and “I Saw the Sign” comes on I suddenly lose track of what decade it is. Am I driving to a frat party? Am I picking Cathy up at her dorm? All sorts of weird juju happens around me. Then they throw me a “Pump Up the Jam” and I’m totally lost. My body starts launching into whatever dance routine I can still instantly recall.

Side note, I’ve noticed that off-the-shoulder is coming back… but WHERE are the overalls, people!?! Bring it on, already!

I did my best to keep exercising while on my X Country Adventure. But it was hard. When the hotels had fitness centers I used them (always in the very early mornin’ as to not interrupt happy hour). I went on several runs and hiked and hiked over some rivers and through the woods, desert and all along the hilly, magically forested Cali coast.

But I never made it to a spinning class. The horror.

Yesterday I jumped back on the stationary bike beast at the Weight Club here in Blacksburg – still rockin’ a bum right foot. I just about died. Note to self – never let a significant lapse in spinning ever happen again. It’s not fun.

Tonight I’m going swimming with mi madre which I have never tried as exercise before. The last time I found myself in a pool of water I think I just bobbed around a lot and had a cocktail of the frozen variety in my hand. So this evening I’ll just swim back/forth for 30 minutes or so and see if I feel like I should be sweating. Something tells me it’s going to be harder than I think.

Ya know, I really hate the use of “besties” to mean “Best Friends.” It’s dumb and it sounds like a dog breed. BFF isn’t much better, but that seems to be what I’ve naturally adopted on GoGoPance. So here I am with three of my BFFs during our 1st Annual Radford Girls Reunion Weekend. Good times. Good times. A visit to Valhalla Vineyards on top of Bent Mountain in Roanoke… a drive around Smith Mountain Lake… some yummy mexican and about 3,422 beers too many by the host-home’s roaring fire. Cozy, warm ‘n’ drunk. Just like I like to spend my fall evenings.

Before settling in we went to a really cool gastropub on the lake. We met a lovely couple who also graduated from Radford but ten years before we did. There was much fun conversation comparing respective RU experiences. I must also note that the bartender graduated from Blacksburg High School in 2004. Yeesh. Bebe. However, he also went to UVA and seemed fairly directionless as he served up our pumpkin ale drafts. Poor, poor, young Wahoo.